Free Fall
by themockingjayfromgallifrey
Summary: John has a problem, and he knows it. A clever, mad, addictive problem that has him falling fast. It all started in a dark alleyway on an even darker night in downtown London. University!lock AU. Eventual Slash Sherlock/John. Rated T for now, but it may change to M later.
1. An Unexpected Encounter

Authors Note: This is the first chapter in (hopefully) a longer fic. I'm not really sure what I'm going with this, so if you have any ideas, requests, criticism, or hate messages, feel free to submit them! All feedback is welcome.

Disclaimer: I wish _I_ did, but all these characters are owned by the lovely BBC. Cheers!

The night was chilly, and as a cold gust of air hit the lone figure he shivered. Hefting the book-bag, heavy with textbooks, higher onto his back, John walked faster down the badly lit street. It had been a late night in the library studying for a huge exam the next day, and after reading the same page 5 or 6 times without understanding any of it, he had given up cramming. Terminology was swirling through his head, and he was looking forward to passing out his soft, warm bed. His eyelids drooped, but the sharp sting of the wind kept him moving.

John turned a corner and strode past the black alleyways, wanting to get back to his flat quickly. Usually he would have taken the tube, but his flat was only a few blocks away. Even so, London wasn't exactly a safe place at this time of night, especially when you were half dead on your feet. In fact, John was so exhausted that he almost didn't hear the muffled yelp of pain as he walked past one of the mouths of an alley. He kept going for a moment, then registered what he had heard. Eyes narrowed, he backtracked to the alley where the sound had come from.

He stood just outside the reach of one of the streetlamps, the light dimly filtering into the alleyway. Cloaked in darkness, he heard a voice in his head telling him to keep walking and leave well enough alone. He ignored it. John quietly slid the bag off of his back and set it against the wall with a muffled thump. Then, with his back pressed against the cold stone of the building, he peeked around the corner of the building into the alley.

What he saw quickly drained John's exhaustion away. He was awake and on full alert. Three men were surrounding someone on the ground, their postures threatening. Two of them were giants, being well over six feet tall, their arms huge, and their chests straining around tightly fitted black t-shirts. They must be some sort of bodyguards or mercenaries. The third man was slightly shorter and slimmer, but –for some reason- John found him much more intimidating than the other two. He was wearing a dark fitted suit, and had straight, jet black hair. John couldn't see very well by the one lamp, but the face of the third man looked- harder, somehow. Crueler, like there wasn't an ounce of compassion left in him. There was a hard light in his eyes, and they glinted, looking almost totally black in their sockets. His expression was impossible to read. John felt a shiver run down his spine, and he shook himself slightly.

What was more pressing at the moment was the figure curled up in a ball on the ground. The muffled sobs were coming from him. A mop of tangled black curls covered his head, but the darkness obscured most of his features. A dark coat wrapped tightly around him, the man buried his face into his tucked in knees as the smaller man put a kick into his back. A strangled gasp was muffled by his coat, and John froze in horror, then quickly pulled his head back around the corner. What should he do? Thoughts raced through his mind as he tried to work out a solution. Call the police? Most likely they wouldn't be able to get there in time. The nearest station at least 10 minutes away, and he didn't know how badly the man was hurt. He could be dead by the time the police arrived. Step in himself? John didn't want to get hurt, and three against one weren't very good odds. Maybe he should just walk away. That would be the smartest thing to do, and as he debated the idea with himself for a split second, he knew that he wouldn't do it. He would never forgive himself for leaving someone on their own when he could have done something. John decided on calling the police, praying they would get there in time. Fumbling for his phone, he started as he heard the man on the ground speak. He hesitantly peaked back around the corner of the wall.

"Please! You'll have what I owe you by Friday," the man whimpered. His voice was deep, but at the moment it trembled in fear and exhaustion. "Just give me time. I just need more time."

The assailant's face was livid with anger for a split second. Then, his features re-arranged themselves into a calm mask, and John blinked, not sure if he had only imagined it.

"It's too late, sweetie. You stole from me, and now you have to pay for it." He booted the prone figure again, this time in the stomach, and he jerked, letting out a choked sob.

"Jim!" he begged. "Don't… I didn't… please Jim…please."

'Jim's' mouth curled up into a smirk. Just a small one, but it was definitely there. John's jaw dropped. The monster was enjoying it. He _actually_ had the nerve to smile at this. The scene hit a nerve, and John saw red. No one should _ever_ be treated like that. The last time he had witnessed a beating like this, he had been too young to do anything. This time, though, it was different. This time he could do something. The panic dissipated, and even as his part of his mind told him, screamed at him not to, his body acted on its own. He dropped his phone, and it landed on the pavement with a clatter. The three assailants' faces shot up as John stepped from the shadows.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you are doing?" John growled. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, and his whole body radiated anger.

The victim glanced up, and John got a better look at his face. He was taken aback for a moment. It would have been angular and extremely elegant, but there was a deep gash on one cheek which was starting to swell. The second thing that struck John was the man's eyes. One of them had a dark purple bruise around it, and the eye had almost swollen shut. The eye that he _could_ see was a deep blue-grey, and it seemed to shimmer even in the low light.

Relief flashed across the man's face, but it was almost immediately followed by alarm.

"Get out of here," he hissed. "You can't help m-," he was cut off by a boot to the stomach, and small droplets of blood flew from his mouth, along with a strangled cry.

Jim smirked lazily at John. "Take care of that for me boys," he commanded, seemingly unconcerned. Well, shit. John hadn't exactly thought too far about his course of action. He braced himself for a fight, knowing he was about to lose badly, but he didn't regret what he had done. The two men strode toward him, cracking their knuckles. John barely had time to register a little red dot wavering on a forehead, though, before a loud gunshot rang out. John froze for a second, and then dropped to the ground, lying pressed flat against the cold, stone sidewalk. He peeked up just in time to see the second body guard cry out as another gunshot sounded, blood spurting out of his chest. He staggered, then collapsed to the ground. Both men weren't moving. John tucked his face back into the ground, the roar of blood pounding in his ears and adrenaline coursing through his body. He could dimly hear footsteps quickly retreating down the alleyway. What the hell just happened? Where had the gunshots come from?! His breaths came in quick gasps. He tried to make them as quiet as possible as he strained his ears for any hint of what had just happened, but all he could hear was the faint sound of a siren in the distance.

When he finally looked up, all John could focus on was the crimson blood of the bodyguards, shining dully in the lamplight. He barely had any time to register his shock and confusion when he heard footsteps. John scrambled up, ready for a fight, but was surprised when a rather sharply dressed man came striding into the alley, flanked by what looked like some sort of SWAT team. The man was tall, lanky, with a bit of a stomach, but that didn't subtract from the intimidation factor in the least. The air about him suggested this man usually got what he wanted, and nothing could get in his way.

At the moment, though, he seemed to be trying to repress an anxious expression as two of his men rushed forward, running to the poor bloke who had been beaten half to death. He appeared to have gone unconscious. In fact, John had almost forgotten about him, and he felt a surge of guilt that he hadn't thought to see if the man was alright after the gunfire. He _was_ a doctor in training, after all.

Then, the well-dressed man focused his gaze on John. He locked eyes with the man, and John was surprised to see anger in his face. He walked over and grabbed John's bad shoulder.

"Idiot," he growled lowly. The man's grip tightened, causing John to wince slightly. "What were you thinking? I had my brother under surveillance and was about to resolve the situation myself. There is a difference between being brave and being _foolish_. You might have been _killed_! If my snipers had not intervened, that might have been _you._ " He gestured toward the motionless bodyguards, inhaling deeply, then shook his head, expression (and grip, thank goodness) softening a bit. "Although, I suppose you _were_ only attempting to help. Sherlock always manages to get himself into the worst trouble." He sighed, still shaking his head, then held out his hand. "Mycroft Holmes," he simply said, as a way of introduction.

John ignored the hand, still in too much shock to say anything at all, even though his mind was starting to clear a bit. He started to feel angry. John was confused, and he didn't know what was going on. All he knew was he had only been trying to help, and now two men were lying dead at his feet! And why was that man being beaten half to death? What was his name- Sherlock? What kind of stupid posh name was that, anyway? John opened his mouth to tell the man to piss off, he was leaving, but was interrupted by a voice coming from behind him.

"We need to call an ambulance," a man said urgently. "I think there's internal bleeding, but we can't be sure until he gets to the hospital." The dark figure was kneeling beside Sherlock, .

"It has already been done." Mycroft reassured him. It was true. John could hear the wail of sirens getting closer. "In the meantime, I will have Doctor Watson escorted home." As he spoke, a black car pulled up to the kerb.

John finally spoke, barely managing to contain his fury. "You- you _honestly believe_ that I intend to go home after what I just saw? There are two men lying dead at my feet!" It was only after he spoke that he realized he had never told this stranger his name.

"That is an _extremely_ insightful observation, Doctor Watson. _Please do_ let us know if you discover anything el-,"

John cut him off. "What is wrong with you?! Why haven't the police arrived yet? Didn't they hear the guns?"

"Of course they have. They also have been informed that the situation was resolved at my initiative."

John blinked. "By _you?_ Who _are_ you? How did you manage to tell off the police?" He was becoming more confused by the second.

The man smiled, but it never reached his eyes. He opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a weak voice behind him.

"_That,_" the voice behind them croaked," is Mycroft. He is an extremely annoying arse, and- I _deeply_ regret to inform you- is also my brother."

* * *

John bounced along as the ambulance barreled down the street. Hardly anyone was driving so late at night, so they were virtually unimpeded as they raced through the streets.

After Sherlock's brief moment of apparent lucidity, he had started speaking nonsense, gesturing jerkily in the air. Mycroft looked concerned; worried that the assailant (John later learned that his name was James Moriarty, a prominent drug dealer on this side of London) had done something to him, he called for his men to take a blood sample, wanting to check for anything out of place in his system. When the medics bent over him with a needle, the screaming started. Sherlock tackled the shocked medic, scrambling for the needle. John, with the help of two other men, managed to restrain and sedate him, but not before John heard what he was saying. 'I need it! Please- I need it,' was repeated over and over until Sherlock collapsed in a drug induced sleep.

That was when the ambulance had arrived. John had refused Mycroft's offer to take him home, instead opting to ride in the ambulance. Mycroft had looked puzzled, but agreed to let John stay with Sherlock. He was now seated on a stool by the stretcher, watching the busy medics and listening to the erratic beeping of Sherlock's heart monitor.

John pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. Now that the excitement of the earlier encounter was wearing off, he could feel the exhaustion returning to his body. On top of the million questions buzzing through John's head was the intense need to sleep. In effort to stay awake, John studied the sleeping face of the man on the stretcher. 'Sherlock,' he reminded himself.

Now that they were out of the dark alleyway, John had a clearer look at Sherlock's face. His first impression was one of elegance, though that was somewhat hampered by the injuries on his face. His face had high cheekbones covered by the palest skin imaginable. What John had first thought to be black hair had turned out to be dark brown in the light. He broadened his view, and saw that, despite the bulky coat Sherlock was wearing, he was slender. Skinny, even. Long limbs hung loosely over the edges of the stretcher, and John gingerly tucked an arm back by Sherlock's side, not wanting to disturb the IV tethered to it.

The ambulance swerved around a corner, and John grabbed the stretcher to keep it from sliding. He held on, wondering, not for the first time, why he had decided to come with Sherlock. He told himself that he felt guilty and worried about Sherlock's condition, and he did. He really did. He also told himself that if he had happened by sooner, this whole situation might have been avoided, somehow. But he didn't think that was the only reason. He just couldn't think what else it could be. Honestly, John was too tired to do much thinking at the moment.

John folded his arms on the railing of the stretcher, and rested his forehead on them. He closed his eyes, and the last thing he heard as he fell asleep was a small voice in his head, informing him that yes, he would definitely be failing his exam in the morning.

Authors Note: Hopefully, the next chapter will be posted soon. Thanks for reading, you sexy readers you!


	2. Text

Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, no matter how hard I wish it!

Author's Note: This chapter is more of a filler between chapters.I'm sorry if it's not too exciting, but I promise the next one is going to be awesome! (I hope so, at least) I've already started on it, and it's about halfway done. Also, thank you for your reviews! Every single one, even if it's only a sentence, inspires me to keep writing, Anyway, I'll stop wasting your _extremely _valuable time. Enjoy, my beautiful readers!

Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own!

**Chapter 2**:

It had happened again.

John knows how the dream begins. A particularly cheery, picturesque scene of a family at Christmas time. A cozy, if rather small living room displaying a crackling fire in the corner. Infectious laughter sounding through the air, and the smell of cookies baking in the oven. A massive Christmas tree in the corner, twinkling with specks of red and green. His mother, grinning widely as she adjusts the star to just the right spot. John feels contented. Happy. He wishes the feeling will last forever.

However, he knows what will happen next. The screeching of a car carries up to the flat. John's father swaying through the door, grabbing its frame for support. The grin melting off his mother's face. Angry mutters that become drunken screeches as his mother frantically tries to placate him. And then, her screaming. Always, the screaming, as his father grabs her by the hair and slams her against the wall. Again and again, while John's own screams mingle with his mother's. Fighting to reach her, but being frozen in place, unable to move his legs. Sobbing, too young to understand why, _why_ he would do this. Struggling to aid his mother. This particular nightmare is all too familiar, but this was usually where it ends. Where John jolts awake, gasping for air.

Instead, the scene changes. The screaming cuts off, and suddenly John finds himself transported to a familiar looking alleyway. Leaning against a wall, hands in pockets, is Sherlock, enveloped in a dark coat. He is standing, casually watching John. The stormy eyes that had been so conspicuous before are narrowed, sizing John up. John, still unsteady on his feet, tries to get his bearings. He inhales shakily, attempting to relax his pounding heart.

When he finally feels his pulse slowing, he glances at Sherlock. And _even though_ John is aware that he is dreaming, he finds himself checking the other for injuries. Sherlock's face is smooth and un-marked, and he holds himself comfortably. There are no signs of them ever existing. After determining Sherlock's apparent health, John contents himself to quietly observe the man.

They watch each other for an indeterminable amount of time. John could have been standing there for minutes or hours. When Sherlock finally speaks, there is no trace of pain laced with the words like there had been previously.

"Hello," he says simply, trapping John's gaze. John's return greeting is caught in his throat. The eyes of the other man lock on his, and John finds himself pinned in place once again. Even though he knows practically nothing about this man, he still finds himself fascinated, and John is unable to tear his gaze away.

When John wakes, his mind is awash with the stormy blue of the other's stare.

* * *

John was late. So late, he had most likely missed the exam entirely.

He scrambled out of bed, rushing to the bathroom. Thirty seconds later, John emerged, teeth hastily brushed and deodorant thrown on. He speedily pulled some clean clothes, then glanced at the clock again.

"Bloody hell," he muttered. Sighing, John slowed his frantic movements. There was no way he was going to be able to make it to the test on time. He pulled on his trainers, deciding to just walk down to Barts. He _was_ one of the professor's favorites, so he would most likely be allowed to take it late.

John pulled out his mobile when he heard a text alert. It was probably his professor, wondering where on earth he was. However, John frowned when he saw _Unknown Number_ written across the top of the screen. He opened the text.

_ I had you escorted home yesterday evening, seeing as you fell asleep on the ambulance. Hopefully, the next time we meet will not be as strenuous of an affair._

_ -MH_

John wrote back:

_ if im lucky, there wont bloody well be a nxt time. where did u get this number? -J_

A minute later, John's phone dinged.

_ That is unimportant._

_ -MH_

John huffed. Why couldn't the arse just give him a straight answer? John was about to jam his phone back into his pocket when he was suddenly struck with a thought.

_ Is Sherlock doing alright? he seemed in an awfully bad way last night. -J_

John really was worried. Sherlock had been an absolute mess yesterday, and, even though it was totally irrational, John couldn't help feeling responsible for how badly Sherlock had been hurt.

His phone dinged.

_ Sherlock is doing fine. Better than yesterday, at any rate. Currently, he is recovering at St. Bartholemew's._

_ -MH_

John grinned and hastily typed:

_ thats gr8, im alrdy headed ovr there. maybe I can pop by 4 a visit? -J_

Without waiting for a reply, John shoved his mobile back into his pocket. Taking the steps two at a time, he opened the front door and headed for Barts. It was only when John was nearly halfway there when he realized he was still grinning like a madman.

Author's Note: Short chapter, I know, I'm sorry. I'll get the next one posted as soon as possible. Thanks to my readers, especially Asamiakihito, beemoh, and GlareGryphon for your reviews. You are amazing! Fantastic!


	3. Brilliant

Author's Note: Hello again! I apologize that this chapter has taken so long to write. I've been so swamped with work that I've only managed to grab half an hour here and there. I've also had a bit of trouble getting this chapter the way I wanted it. Oh well, excuses excuses. Here is chapter three.

Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine, yadda yadda yadda. You know the drill.

(By the way, I took some poetic license with the inside of Bart's, seeing as how I've never been there. That's one of the perks of writing fiction.) Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.

* * *

John strode up to the intern seated behind the front desk. She was a pretty girl: short and curvy, with wavy brunette hair and big brown eyes. She had an open, earnest expression that made John smile. She was the very image of the type of girl John had always pictured himself with, and he put on the coyest grin he could manage as she looked up.

"Hello there," she said, smiling shyly. "Can I help you?"

"Oh, yes," he said. "I think you can." He leaned against the counter, still grinning. "I'm here to visit a friend of mine." _Well, I say friend…_

"In a hospital? Are they alright? I mean, of course they aren't, obviously they're in a hospital but I just thought I should ask, and I hope they aren't too injured or anything like that…" John's smile grew more genuine at her babbling. "Sorry, I'm rambling. Um, can I get a name?"

"John Watson," he said, holding out his hand.

She hesitated, then took it. "Mary Morstan, though I was actually asking about the friend you were visiting. Their name, I mean."

"I know," he flirted. "Just wanted to be sure you had mine first. Never know when you might need it." She smiled at him, and lingered just a second too long before releasing his hand.

"Really, though," said John. "Can you look up his room number for me? His name's Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

The smile melted off of Mary's face.

"Oh. Mr. Holmes," she mumbled. "Yes, um….. Are you- are you sure?" She was suddenly looking at her feet, the desk, anywhere but John. "Sure you want visit him, I mean." John was confused.

"Yes," he said, hesitantly. "Is there a reason I shouldn't be?"

"No, no," she said. "Of course not. Floor two, room twenty one." She hadn't even glanced at her computer screen. "The elevator is down the hall and to the right." All traces of her playfulness were gone, replaced by a stilted manner.

"Thanks, then…" As John turned to leave, he saw Mary give him a strange look. Almost like she couldn't understand what he was doing. John was nonplussed, but brushed the moment off as he headed down the hallway. He was eager to find out if Sherlock was doing better, and wanted to speak to the odd man he had encountered in the middle of the night. He also wanted some answers- and this time, John was determined to get them.

As John walked toward the elevator he noticed something strange. Peering up into a corner, he stopped short. Then, he slowly moved forward again. Stopped. Started. Stopped again. If John didn't know any better… he could swear the security camera was following him. This time, John walked backwards. And yes, the camera trailed his movements. Bloody hell… John hurried past the camera, smacking the elevator button with more force than necessary. He glanced back at the camera, and sure enough, it was trained on him. The doors opened, and he hurried through them. He punched Level 2, giving the security camera in the elevator a suspicious look.

John had no idea what was going on, but if he had to venture a guess… the annoying brother with the suit. What was his name again? Mycroft. The nosy bastard. John guessed he was serious when he had said he constantly worried about Sherlock . Though, if he was _this_ paranoid about a friend, John wondered how he had allowed Moriarty to get so close in the first place.

The elevator dinged, and John stepped out of it into a busy, brightly lit hallway. He glanced at the doors, looking for number 221. He figured the room was somewhere further down this hall. John started walking, peering at each door. Suddenly, a nurse burst out of one of the rooms, sobbing into her hands. John was too shocked to stop her. She violently pushed her way past him, nearly knocking over a cart being wheeled down the hall. She made the elevator just before the doors shut. John stared at the closed doors, alarmed. What had just happened?

Suddenly, a thought struck him. He hastily walked over to the door the nurse had rushed out of, and stared at it in alarm. Room 221. Sherlock's room. Oh god, was Sherlock alright?! What had happened?!

John shoved open the door and burst into the room. A second later, his body relaxed, and he sighed with relief. John never thought he would be so relieved to see a very alive, very annoyed Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

"What… what was that?" John gestured towards the door, in the general direction that the nurse had gone.

"Boring," Sherlock huffed, leaning his head back against the headrest. "She was being dull."

"What?"

"I simply informed her the truth of her husband's infidelity," Sherlock stated, fingers tapping out a rhythm on the sheets. "I can't say I blame him, either. That woman is horribly dull."

John was getting really bloody tired of being confused. "Did you know her before, then?" That wasn't really any of his business. "Er, never mind, you don't have to answer that." It was then that John realized that Sherlock probably didn't know who he was.

"Sorry, I didn't introduce myself," John held out his hand. "John Watson. From yesterday evening. You probably don't remember me, but-"

"I remember," Sherlock ignored the hand, and John felt the piercing gaze sweep over him once again. "So _you're_ John Watson. Interesting. Tell me, how did your terminology exam go this morning. Or," he glanced at the clock on the wall. "Ah, you missed it. You should have set your alarm earlier."

John was confused. "Have we met before? Or did Mycroft tell you?" John muttered under his breath. "That nosy bastard."

Sherlock's mouth twitched into what could have been a smile. "No. I try to keep minimum contact with Mycroft. He intervenes far too much for my taste."

"If not Mycroft, then who?"

"Me. I observed, and then I deduced."

"You what?"

"I deduced, John," Sherlock snapped. "You are young, I'm guessing about in your early twenties. That means you are most likely at university, a few years into your college education. Fairly intelligent, though you wouldn't know it from our recent conversation. Last night you were out late, nearly until two in the morning. You weren't drunk, so not at the pub. You were walking, so you must have been fairly close from wherever you had just been. Judging by the book bag, you had been studying, most likely after hours at a library. You must do this often, enough that you are familiar with the library and they let you stay. What college is fairly near last night's alley that also has a library? Barts, which means you are a medical student. Which class, a few years into the medical education, requires a great deal of studying? Terminology. The fact that you were up until two means exam tomorrow, no doubt in the morning. Otherwise, you would have crammed then instead of late at night. The fact that you are here instead of at your test indicates you're missing it, most likely sleeping in late because of last night's," here Sherlock paused for a moment. "…events," he finally concluded. He looked down at his lap.

John gaped. "That…that was brilliant! How did you do that?"

Sherlock's head shot up. "I- I told you," he seemed somewhat wary. "I observe things, and I make deductions based on those facts."

"A grin spread over John's face. "Can you deduce anything else about me?"

Sherlock seemed taken aback. "Well… your clothing is well worn, but taken care of. You aren't vain, functionality comes before fashion, though you take pride in your appearance. Your clothes are a few years old- you haven't bought new ones since the end of high school. So somewhat poor- you must have been supporting yourself since the beginning of college. Either your family won't give you any money or they have nothing to give- most likely the former, given the good quality of your clothing. You are intelligent- university costs exorbitant amounts of money, so to be going at all you must have either a full scholarship or close to one. You've also fought with a significant female recently- could be your girlfriend… no, your sister. You don't like one of her bad habits- smoking or drinking, maybe. You confronted her. It didn't go well." Sherlock wouldn't meet John's eyes. He looked almost- ashamed? John couldn't imagine why.

"Amazing," he breathed. He stared at Sherlock in wonder. "You were right about Harry; she has been trying to stop drinking but had a relapse last week. She showed up absolutely wankered on my doorstep a few days ago. Wow… that was fantastic!"

Sherlock looked at him strangely. "You know, that's not what people normally say."

"What do they normally say?"

"…Piss off."

John chuckled, shaking his head. "I can't imagine why. That was brilliant."

"You don't mind that I know all that?" Sherlock asked. "Some of my deductions might be considered… offensive. Usually the reactions I receive aren't nearly as pleasant as yours."

"No, no… I mean, as long as you don't go shouting all my secrets to the public," John grinned. "That might be a bit off putting."

A corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smile.

"A bit, yes." There was a short silence, and John fidgeted, suddenly unsure of himself.

"So that's what you did with that nurse, then?" John could see Sherlock start to close up, and he quickly said, "No! No, I mean, it's good, what you did. Well, not exactly _good,_ but she would have found out eventually, I suppose. It's better she knew now." Sherlock was looking at him strangely, but he had relaxed slightly as John spoke. John didn't want Sherlock to close up to him. He was, by far, the most interesting person John had ever met.

Suddenly a nurse walked through the door. "Hello, Mr. Watson. Sherlock," she glanced quickly in his direction without meeting his eyes. "I've just been sent to fetch you. Sherlock needs his rest, you know. He's been through quite the ordeal." She looked meaningfully at John, and he, somewhat regretfully, took his cue.

"Yes, of course," he said. "It was very nice talking to you Sherlock."

"Yes," Sherlock said, looking faintly surprised. "It was."

"I'll be back tomorrow. If it's alright with you, of course," he hastily added. It wasn't exactly normal to be regularly visiting complete strangers in the hospital. To be honest, though, Sherlock didn't really fit the definition of normal."

"Yes. See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow." John walked out of the room. For the second time that day, he found himself unable to prevent his grin.

* * *

Authors Note: Not really sure where this story is going, so leave a review if you have any requests or ideas. Love to you all!


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